Only Yesterday
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: My tribute to Leonard Nimoy. "If there's any true logic to the universe, we'll end up on that bridge again someday." (Happy ending.)


_I know it's been a very, very long time since I've posted anything here. It's not for lack of interest, I can assure you of that! I'm in my second semester at college now, and I'm sure you can guess why I've been a bit absent. That's not really a great excuse, though, so I'll do you one better-my college also blocks the Internet. Please don't get me started. Anyway, I hope everyone here is doing well! I still think of you all and pray for you!  
I haven't been a Star Trek fan for very long at all (only since _Into Darkness_ came out), but about a year ago, I saw a tweet by Leonard Nimoy, saying that he was offering himself as honorary grandfather to anyone who wanted him to be. Even though I never even saw him face-to-face, I still felt connected to him because of that, and I adored and respected him for all the good things he did in his life within the Star Trek realm and outside of it. He was truly worthy of all the admiration he received in his life, and I know he will never be forgotten. The day he died was the start of the dreaded beast Midterms, so it's taken a while to get this down, but I wanted to pay some sort of tribute in the best way I could. Love you, Grandpa Leonard!  
_

* * *

_"I look around at the new cadets now and can't help thinking. . .has it really been so long? Wasn't it only yesterday that we stepped onto the Enterprise as boys?"  
_-Captain Kirk, deleted scene from _Star Trek _(2009)

* * *

**Only Yesterday**

The room was dimmer than it should have been.

At least, this was his impression. He blinked again and allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows before he stepped carefully down from the pad. He paused for a moment at the controls and had a vague sense that there was something unsatisfactory about them. Perhaps it was that only one or two of the lights blinked at infrequent intervals, rather than the entire board. It was also oddly silent, he noted. Something was missing that should have been there.

He dismissed this notion as irrelevant and continued to the door, which slipped open easily at his approach.

In the hall, a crewman smiled and nodded with slightly more amiability than was often expressed in passing by the members of the crew with which he had little contact.

He offered a simple nod in reply, while his eidetic memory supplied the crewman's name—Rayburn. (1)

He almost paused again, for with that name returned the uncomfortable sensation that something was amiss. A memory seemed to be tugging insistently in the back of his mind, as though one of his rare dreams was oscillating on the edge of his consciousness and his brain were trying to decide whether it should remain or be allowed to disappear forever. Such an effect rarely took hold of him, and when it did, he concluded it to be one of those instances when his human half manifested itself as an annoying presence in his orderly Vulcan brain. Often he would consciously choose the latter of the two options, and the dream-thought and its accompanying undesired feeling would dissipate.

On this occasion, however, he found that it was not so simple as that. There was something quite significant attached to this particular thought—something that carried with it the weight of many years.

It was not until after an undetermined amount of time that he found himself approaching Observation Deck 1, with the odd grins and enthusiastic greetings of more crewmen ringing in his ears.

One thoroughly elated (or inebriated, he was uncertain which) Montgomery Scott had clapped him on the shoulder as he had rounded a corner near Engineering. When he had questioned what the other man meant by "good to have you aboard once again, Mr. Spock," the grinning engineer had appraised him with a peculiar look.

"Aye," he'd hummed, obviously more to himself than to his superior, and then, with conviction, "I think you'd better go and find the captain, Mr. Spock. He'll do a right better job of explaining things than I am capable. I'll be seeing you around, sir, most certainly."

With that, the faithful engineer had gently nudged him along, and so he had been walking, through familiar halls that felt more and more _wrong_ with every step, past crewmen whose faces were recognizable and yet so distant—again, as though from a dream. He had not been dreaming, though. He could not have been; he had just beamed aboard. He had been. . .

The door slid open just as a shock of subdued alarm rose in his chest. He could not recall where he had been, or what he had been doing.

His gaze dropped to his sleeves before he could consider it. A double row of braid adorned the blue, and he could not understand why that should feel so completely wrong as well. This, if anything, was _right_. Who he was, what he did, why—it was all represented by those two rows of braid on his science-blue sleeves. It should have eased his mind, grounded him, rather than confusing him all the more.

It was in this moment that he caught sight of a figure, seated in the near-darkness of the deck, slumped comfortably in one of the soft chairs and reading a thick book through a pair of old-fashioned Terran glasses.

In that instant, it was as though every question he'd ever had was answered—or, rather, that they all ceased to matter. Flashes of memory flooded his consciousness as that tickling sensation tore through at last in a revelation as bright as a sun—of a captaincy switchover that would change his destiny forever…of men and women lost to tragedy or accident or sickness or age…of a five-year mission and many, many more years after that, sitting at his place at a console on a bridge that was the closest thing to a home he would ever experience. On that bridge, with those men and women, he had experienced life and death and discovery and struggle.

They had become a band of friends who would beg and borrow and steal to bring him _back_ home, risking all to prove to him that sometimes it was worth it just for the one. They had been patient, so patient with him.

One had been the most patient of all of them, smiling that whimsical smile that never changed all through the years (though it did grow tired at times), with warm hazel eyes that offered nothing but total acceptance of who he was and what they could be together.

More flashes, of youth and age and how they had all changed in passing from one to the next, but none had changed more than he…of nights on this very deck, sitting in view of the stars with two humans in the chairs across from him, one flushing with contagious laughter as the other pulled every sharp Georgian insult in existence and he reciprocated coolly.

Neither of them were ever able to prove whether the brain was mightier than the heart—and in the end, when there were just the two of them, they silently agreed that perhaps it was the commanding soul that mattered most after all. That had been directly after he had received a secret missive wrapped in layers of code, detailing the circumstances under which Admiral James T. Kirk was designated "missing." He had almost ruined his entire undercover operation, to make it back to Earth in time for the ceremony.

That same sharp Georgian accent, thicker now with unshed emotion, had gently urged him to feel whatever he must to grieve, as they'd both stood outside, neither moving while the memorial service began. And oh, had he felt then, so much more than he ever would have expected, even though it had been years since he'd learned to appreciate and even welcome those once-despised human feelings.

Not so long after that, and he had been standing alone, and _feeling _alone for the first time in decades, in front of a new grave under a colorful Georgian sunset.

Then, years of empty struggle toward a righteous goal, until a lonely mission to nowhere, with millions of Romulan lives victims of fate, and one Romulan who believed blame lay elsewhere…a black hole that amazed him and then a second that tore his heart out at the cry of millions of Vulcan voices…being all alone again, in a cave of ice as cold as his trembling hands, and then _blue eyes_ and _new meaning_…

…a not-unexpected stab of pain at his heart where he'd sat in his chambers on New Vulcan, and then a jolt of surprise when he turned his weary head on the pristine white pillow after many long hours and saw those blue eyes.

_Nu__'__ri_-Jim had sat with him well into that night. (2) They had so rarely gotten an opportunity to talk in this version of life. The young captain was so like his Jim it was almost eerie to be playing chess across from him like they had done so many years in a distant reality. Still, he was so different as well; illogically, he felt that this version of his captain would seem younger forever, perhaps because he had begun his captaincy so early. He would endure all of the trails they had endured, but in his own way and with younger (_bluer_) eyes. His Spock, likewise, was different, learning early lessons about life through pain of loss he himself had never experienced at this age. Somehow, with all their differences, they remained as well-balanced as he and his Jim had been. Every fault in one was counterbalanced with a strength in the other. It was a familiar phenomenon.

While he drifted into a deep slumber, he had heard _Nu__'__ri_-Spock speak softly to his captain.

Fingertips as cool and sensitive as his own had brushed against his wrist, gently removing Jim's warmer, stronger grip from his aged hand. For a moment, he had been able to sense them both through the contact.

They would be fine. This he knew certainly. They would be as much as he and his Jim had been. Perhaps, with everything, they would be even more.

He had let the darkness take him, never fearing it. There was nothing to fear. So much he had known had already gone on before him. It would all be there, waiting, once he passed through the dark into the other side.

Jim was so engrossed in _Great Expectations_ that he failed to notice his favorite reading spot had been invaded until a silent figure stepped into the soft lamplight.

Golden eyes widened behind the clean lenses.

As the startled human stood abruptly, the book slid from his hands and fell awkwardly open on the floor at their feet. The glasses were ripped off and flung thoughtlessly onto the chair. (Spock wondered absently why the man was wearing them at all; he was as young and his eyes obviously as strong as when they had begun their first voyage.)

"_Spock_," came the awed half-whisper.

(Another memory echoed at the sound of it, of these same shocked eyes staring as they saw each other for the first time in two years on their way to V'Ger, and when he had taken the place of the gunner on a Klingon vessel to save his life, and probably dozens more times through the years when he had amazed the man without really meaning to do so. He relished in it now. On every such occasion, Jim had needed him, and he had gladly taken his place. So he would again.)

He leaned down and picked up the precious fallen book, shutting it with all the reverence it was due.

Jim moved slightly aside, never looking away from him, as Spock likewise picked up and folded the invaluable glasses and set them atop the book on the side table.

When he met Jim's gaze again, the man's eyes were gleaming, and that familiar smile was just starting to lighten the shadows of the place better than any lamplight ever could.

"Spock," he said again, this time like a welcome.

A hand exactly like _Nu__'__ri-_Jim's (but somehow so much more familiar) reached up to touch his arm. Feeling the solid bone and muscle, Jim's face finally—_finally_, it had been so long—broke out into a grin that seemed to spread and warm everything in sight of it, including the once-cold soul of a Vulcan.

In that moment, Vulcan or no, Spock could retain control no longer, and he would not have wished he could. There were a few things that were worth dropping one's barriers, and he counted himself fortunate to know what those things were.

He heard Jim's gasp against his blue-clad shoulder and felt the warmth of his delighted chuckle. Almost instantly, that little laugh broke off with a hitch of breath, and answering arms encircled him.

Spock closed his eyes and let the connection wash over his senses. He wondered if he had always been able to feel this bond when they had touched before, and if he had never realized it until now, or if it was only through this long separation that his telepathic mind suddenly recognized something it should have long before now.

In either case, Jim did not seem willing to release him after a few seconds, and he did not feel the least bit inclined to instigate another separation himself.

When they did finally pull away, it was, against all typicality, Jim who gently pushed him back first.

"Welcome home," he said, as simply as if they were back in their early days and he had been gone for a short lecture somewhere, except in addition to Jim's glad smile were tears glistening in his hazel eyes.

Then, the smile faltered when he saw Spock's face, the hands on the thinner shoulders relaxing and almost—almost—pulling away in surprise.

Spock, unlike the lonely Vulcan child he had once been, made no effort to conceal the two tears that had slipped silently from his eyes. Instead, he kept his gaze locked without useless shame or explanation with Jim's.

The human stared, slightly open-mouthed for a moment longer, but the compassion and understanding were clear in the manner in which he gripped his First's shoulders with more fervor than ever. He made no comment on the deeply emotional unVulcan display; of course he did not. Jim Kirk never would.

So Spock himself did.

"It has been a very long time," he began, and then had to stop.

His own voice sounded almost foreign to his ears. It was, once again, so clear and strong, the voice of an inexperienced Lieutenant Commander. Yet depth of feeling underlined the low solemnity of it, so that at the same time it sounded nothing like the stoic Vulcan scientist from back then—wisdom of age now hiding under the youth.

Kirk seemed to hear the same thing, for his mouth quirked up, his fingers pressing deeper into Spock's shoulders reassuringly.

"I want to hear _everything_," he said in with clipped finality, cutting the air with one hand for emphasis. "I want to know what all you've been up to, Mister. Spare me no details."

"I have been quite occupied."

_Incomplete. I have been incomplete._

"I'm sure you have," came the whimsical laugh, and then a more somber, "It has been a long time."

"You must first tell me how—how you came to be here," he tried. "I used all known resources to—trace you, but the attempt proved useless. Eventually I lost all…expectation of discovering the Nexus at all, much less you, alive within it."

_Hope. I lost hope. When you left, you took it with you. _

"Well," he smiled, "it is quite a story. I'll tell it to you—over a game of chess, perhaps?"

He was uncertain whether the urge that rose in his chest was one to laugh or begin crying again. He did neither, the Vulcan in him still so very dominant, but he knew Jim would know his heart even if it was never expressed in his face—just as the perceptive human always had.

"I wanted to say—Jim, there was never a chance—" he stumbled, very unVulcan, over his own words.

_Goodbye. I wanted to tell you goodbye. There was never a chance to explain how precious you are to me. You were supposed to return from that voyage. You should have returned. I never imagined for a moment that you would not return._

He was growing frustrated with his own tongue, and how his words could simultaneously sound so human and yet explain none of his human feelings adequately.

"Jim, I wanted…"

_To go with you. If I had known, I would have gone with you._

"Spock."

His eyes flickered again to the smiling face.

"I know," Jim's voice was as kind as he remembered, and he rested in it as the captain gave his arm one last squeeze and whispered again, "I know."

He allowed it when the human reached carefully and grasped Spock's hand between both of his own, reminiscent of a moment almost like this one—a moment of reacquaintance and revelation, as he'd lain weary after his meld with V'Ger. That had been the closest he had ever been capable of coming to admitting all that he felt, deep within, for this extraordinary man.

Spock let his head drop just a bit so that his forehead could brush against Jim's. The weight of all of life seemed to have drained from him, and left nothing but the good memories, giving him an almost dreamlike awareness. Here he stood, on this ship, with this man, and only the limitless future would tell what awaited them.

The captain kept his eyes open even when Spock closed his, never releasing the cool Vulcan hand. He wished, briefly, that he had some kind of telepathic sense, so that he could feel rather than just see the emotions visible in every line of this remarkable being.

"I'm so happy you're here," he said, although he knew it was more than obvious.

He had spoken in no more than a whisper, not wanting to upset whatever small trance was overtaking his friend, but still Spock moved his head slightly in acknowledgement. Another long moment, and he pulled back; Jim released his hand, and they had only a moment to smile quizzically at each other (one with his mouth, the other with his eyebrows) before the peaceful aura was shattered quite violently.

"If ya'll are just about finished, there are actually other people on this ship who might like a word in, you know."

Jim barely refrained from bursting out laughing as a look passed through Spock's eyes that was half-elation and half-horror.

"Doctor," the Vulcan's voice betrayed what his face could not, as he looked wildly to the side.

Keen blue eyes grinned at the two of them as the newcomer stepped into the glow of the lamplight.

"Well, Mister Spock, I'm actually glad to see you. Finally someone can talk a lick of sense into our captain. Lord knows I haven't been able to do it since I got here. There's been an empty spot on the bridge that's just perfect for your logical self, and I—"

It was impossible to say which one of the three of them was more surprised when Spock knocked the wind out of their irascible doctor, effectively cutting off whatever he had been saying. McCoy didn't protest a bit, but instead hugged him back with gentle laughter mixed with his unshed tears.

It was certainly Jim who was most shocked, however, when they sat in the mess hall an hour later, and he heard the tale of how a young Spock had apparently marooned his fiery not-yet-captain for mutiny on a frozen planet after Pike had made this so-called _Nu__'__ri_-Jim First Officer.

His amazed laughter bounced off the walls, joining with McCoy's pleased cackle, and Spock was home.

**END**

* * *

_"If there's any true logic to the universe, we'll end up on that bridge again someday. Admit it, Spock. For people like us, the journey itself is home."_  
-Captain Kirk (last line of deleted scene)

* * *

(1) Crewman Rayburn was one of the first two redshirts to die in the series, suffocated by Ruk in "What are Little Girls Made Of?".

(2) _Nu__'__ri-_ is a Vulcan familial term for "young" (at least, as far as I can tell; if I'm wrong, sorry!).

* * *

_This is my first attempt at a real, honest-to-goodness Star Trek oneshot, so I'm sure there are a lot of things I need to improve on! Don't be afraid to let me know if I've gotten a fact wrong, or even if it seems OOC.  
Anyway, thanks for reading! _


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